


Nelyo

by ziggy



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-05-10 23:58:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5605912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziggy/pseuds/ziggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Tirion, Findekáno and Nelyo- realising.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For all those fabulous readers who leave comments, kudos etc. Especially those who have asked for more of the most tragic pair in ME.
> 
> Special acknowledgement to Spiced Wine, Dawn Felagund, Himring, Lyra and a host of other writers who have written Fingon and Maedhros fics- this is raw and unbeta'd.

Nelyo and Findekáno

‘Nelyo, I do love you,’ Findekáno slurred, throwing his arm round his cousin’s waist for even he, tall as he was, could not comfortably reach his arm over his even taller cousin’s shoulder. Nelyo made an incoherent sound and giggled. He did not giggle much. He usually laughed loudly, throwing his head back and closing his eyes as he did. 

Fin loved that. He loved making Nelyo laugh.

He loved Nelyo. ‘I love you, Nelyo,’ he said again and it was a little more sober than before and he stopped and looked at Nelyo. 

I have always loved him, Findekáno thought, looking at the perfect face, the long hair and broad shoulders, lean hips. He could not remember of course, but it was one of the family stories that the first time he saw Nelyo, he had reached out to grab at the long auburn hair and to wave tiny fists possessively at the lovely face smiling at him with grey eyes so pale they were silver. Indulgent laughter usually followed the tale from family members and Nelyo smiled his lovely smile. And Findekáno had hoarded every smile.

But those feelings had changed more than a little over the years. Now he was grown up, Findekáno knew the feelings that burst in his chest when he thought of his cousin were more intense than any he felt for anyone else in the world.

It was confusing of course, but not perplexing. His father thad explained that sometimes, as you grew up, your emotions became confused; you had infatuations. Crushes. It was perfectly normal and he would grow out of it. And as he grew, he became more of a companion and less of an indulged little cousin. But the crush hand not lessened. Anything but.

Nelyo closed one eye to see Fin better and wobbled on his feet. He had a silly grin on his face. ‘I know, Fin,’ he said, his grin widening. ‘I love you too…’ He frowned. ‘Can’t really see you… properly.’ A very heavy sigh then. ‘Think I drank too much.’ Another burst of giggles and Fin put his arm back round Nelyo’s waist and pulled him close.

‘Come on then. Think I can get us home.’

He lost them taking a short cut that he did not know and they swerved and wobbled and sang loudly until an irritated neighbour came and shouted at the sons of the House of Finwe that their grandfather would be ashamed to see them like this, and Nelyo and Fin stifled giggles and the neighbour pushed them on their way.

They fell into the garden, trying to smother their giggles and shushing each other loudly.

When Fin got Nelyo to his bedroom, they fell onto the bed, laughing stupidly, drunkenly and exhausted from the effort of simply walking home.

Nelyo kicked his boots off and fell sideways. ‘Fin, help me…’ he mumbled into his pillow. The silly grin had not left his face.

Fin looked over to his cousin. Long, long hair spilled over the white sheets like flames, like red fire, his lovely face was half hidden in the pillow but his full lips curved upwards still and his eyes were closed. Fin wished he was a better artist so he could catch that loveliness, that strong masculine beauty. 

Nelyo spoiled it all by snoring loudly and there was a little drool on his pillow.

Fin leaned over and tenderly wiped his mouth. 

And while he was there, he leaned a bit closer and kissed his cousin’s cheek. Then he leaned his own cheek against Nelyo’s, breathed him in…kissed him again.

Nelyo murmured and rolled over onto his back. His lips parted and he emitted a loud belch. Fin recoiled in disgust and then laughed. 

Nelyo’s silver eyes flickered open and he laughed too. ‘Hear that?…Disgustin….’

His eyes fell shut again and his breathing became rhythmic and slow.

Fin leaned over and looked his fill. He need not fear to be caught, staring at the high cheekbones, the full lips that he so wanted to press against his own, the perfect eyes; long lashes but not girlish. No. There was nothing at all girlish about Nelyo. Maitimo. Well-formed. Oh yes, certainly well formed…

He had seen his cousin often enough, clothed, half clothed, naked as Eru made him. And he was well formed in all his parts, thought Findekáno with a small sigh. He let a finger trace the jawbone that was determined without being stubborn or overly strong. He was so very beautiful… it was odd to think of a man as beautiful, but he was not the only one who spoke thus of Nelyo. He was universally admired, desired, so many maids yearning for a look, a glance, a kind word…and even in Tirion though unspoken and barely dared, men too. 

And here was Findekáno daring to hope for more.

I have always loved him, he thought again. He recalled again that earliest memory that his family recounted so often, of clutching at the fire of Nelyo’s hair, gripping it strongly and in fascination. He would grip it again, he admitted to himself, but with a different fascination … a different need… wanting to see him lose himself, thrown back his head and arch in ecstasy… wanting to hear him gasp his name…

He was hard and desire licked at his skin, set him aflame and here was Nelyo, spread before him like a feast. He wanted to take it all…If he dared.

It was not like Nelyo was innocent… not like he had never had a lover…he was more than a little notorious amongst the ladies of Tirion, and some of the men too although that was never spoken of openly just rumour and whispers behind the fluttering fans and cards held too close to the face. And Nelyo merely laughed when he heard such tales. He did not deny it. Nor did he acknowledge it. He seemed merely amused although sometimes he asked with whom he was supposed to have indulged himself. That was worse, thought Findekáno, when Nelyo did not laugh but looked…intrigued, or had that closed patient look he had when he was keeping his thoughts to himself.

But he never seems outraged or disgusted. And if he was not disgusted, then perhaps he had ?

Findekáno felt his face hot and smothered those thoughts, the forbidden lust that he could not contain, that erupted from him and burned his skin, his terrible dreams that engulfed him…

And what if Nelyo awoke and was disgusted?

No.

Nelyo would not do that. He would simply smile kindly, as he did at those disappointed maidens who could not catch his flame, and murmur some nice thing that made them feel their loss even more for his gracious kindliness. 

Gently he drew the long hair into his hand and let it sift through his fingers, watching the red silk slide smoothly against itself, against his warm skin. It was not just red, but gold and blond and different shades of red. Here was crimson and here a soft vermillion. This one was the colour of Telperion and this a softer silver. Fin lost himself in the colours, the shades, his face close and fingers sifting lightly through his cousin’s long fine hair. Nelyo murmured something unintelligible and Fin stopped suddenly, eyes darting to his face in alarm… but Nelyo merely stirred slightly and threw his arm out so it stuck out over the edge of the bed.

The hand was elegant and well shaped, and the arm muscular and strong enough to work day after day in his father’s forge without rest, without tiring, although he had not a fraction of his father’s skill, he shared the delight the Noldor had for making and design. Fin smiled. He could never indulge himself like this when Nelyo was awake even though he had a quality of stillness that was unique. His smooth insouciance and utter patience was legendary in Tirion. Slow to anger but implacable. Fin did not want to lose his cousin’s love. But he knew too that would never happen. Once given, Nelyo’s love was forever.

Findekáno leaned down to smell his cousin’s skin, Nelyo’s own scent. He breathed it in, wanting to fill himself with it, to drown his senses in it and he rested his hand lightly on the broad, muscular shoulder. 

And now the obsession had led him here. Deliberately. He had made this happen. It was never hard to get Nelyo drunk. He liked wine and he liked music and song and company. That was not to say that he had deliberately got Nelyo drunk so he could molest him, press unwanted attention upon him. No. It was reasonably common that he helped Nelyo home like this. It was perfectly acceptable that two sons of lords of the Noldor should carouse and alleycat all night and fall onto the same bed, arms wound companionably about each other’s shoulders. Yes. There was nothing suspect about this at all.

And it would not be unheard of for two young men to fall onto the same bed in a drunken sleep and awaken beside each other, boots off, jerkin off and hair tousled, skin flushed from sleep and drink and full of regret. Indeed this would not be the first time that he had slept on Nelyo’s bed, albeit chastely and innocent. On Nelyo’s part at least, Fin accepted his own reprimand and smiled wryly.

Nelyo had always comforted him. There was something about him that was soothing. It went bone deep. As if he were home.

He put his hands upon his cousin’s skin like it was a relief to touch him, let his fingertips tingle with anticipation and desire. He stroked down his skin, warm. His fingertips brushed against Nelyo’s nipples, small and hard like he was cold and he lingered, pressed his palm over one and felt how it softened and plumped. In fascination, feeling a strange privilege, he gazed at the hollow of Nelyo’s throat, the dip between clavicles and stooped to press his mouth against the hollow. 

Then froze for Nelyo shifted and sighed and his limbs were even more relaxed if that were possible.

He pulled his hand back suddenly for his cousin’s eyes fluttered open for a moment and the lovely, full mouth stretched in a smile. He reached for Findekáno and tugged at his hair lightly.

‘What are you doing there, Fin? With a goofy look on your face.’ He did not mean to hurt Findekáno but it did and he pulled away, looked down. 

‘Wait, no. Fin?’ Nelyo struggled to sit up, his speech slurred with drink. ‘I did not mean…what that. I was being…I was just…’ He shrugged and shook his head at his own clumsiness. ‘Being an ass. Just trying to be funny.’ He pushed his hair out of his face and stared at Findekáno. 

‘No.’ Fin sighed and looked back at his cousin, whose hair was tousled and his cheeks flushed just as Fin had imagined. And he was perfect. So perfect it made his heart ache with misery and longing. ‘Ignore me, Nelyo. It is me who is an ass…I was just…’

They stared at each other.

‘Just what?’ Nelyo blinked slowly trying to focus and he looked so beautiful and vulnerable and sweet, that Findekáno the Valiant leaned over and pressed his lips against his cousin’s.

And felt a smile against his mouth.

Then…

‘That’s not how you do it, Fin.’ Nelyo pulled away. ‘Here.’

He cupped the back of Findekáno’s head and pulled him close, pressing his warm lips against Fin’s and then licking gently with his tongue. He tasted of sweet wine. Findekáno gasped and as he did, Nelyo pushed his tongue between Findekáno’s lips and pushed against Findekáno’s tongue. 

Ah. A hot spike went through him from his tongue to his belly and groin and toes and he felt his cock surge in delight and his nerves thrilled. 

Nelyo’s tongue pushed deeper, more insistent and demanding. Oh Eru! Fin’s cock was hard and aching and his balls churned with excitement. He pushed back and Nelyo fell back against the pillows, giggling, pulling Fin back with him.

‘THAT is how you kiss, Fin!’ Nelyo exclaimed triumphantly, hugging Fin to his lean, hard body and blowing on his ear…

But it was in a silly way. A teasing way that he did with his brothers and Fin pulled back a little. He leaned on his elbow looking down at Nelyo. He was drunk. His eyelids were half closed and he had a soppy expression on his face. He squinted up at Fin again as he had before, one eye closed. 

‘Stop moving, Fin,’ he said grinning. His eye moved about as if he could not focus and Fin sighed. It was drunkeness. 

He pushed himself to his feet and stood looking down at Nelyo who was still grinning merrily. ‘THAT is your good night kiss, Nelyo. Now go to sleep.’

Nelyo propped himself up on his elbows and that long fall of fire-bright hair streamed over his shoulders and pooled onto the bed. His silver-grey eyes followed Fin mischieviously. ‘Nana doesn't kiss me like that.’

‘I should hope not,’ Findekáno said with a smile. And then, because he had to save his own pride and cover up his folly, he added with equal mischief, ‘But I bet Turko does.’

‘Turko! Hah! He is too busy kissing the noses of his dogs and squirrels and bears an’ deer an’ butterflies…’

‘And pigs, and donkeys…’ Fin added laughing.

Nelyo fell back onto the pillows smiling. ‘Night Fin,’ he said.

‘Night Nelyo.’

‘Love you Fin.’

I love you too, Nelyo.’

0o00o0

Fin closed the door quietly and Nelyo was alone. He opened his eyes in the darkness and sighed. He had known for some time that Fin’s youthful admiration for his older cousin had turned into adoration and then infatuation. 

It had happened before. Nelyo had been the object of many an infatuation, both maids and young men. Older men too if the truth be known. It was just time. Fin just needed time to let his fierce young ardour cool and turn to more appropriate pursuits…some sweet maid would ensnare him and he would fall in love for real, and wed…But Nelyo’s heart pulled at him. He rubbed his eyes with his forearm and sighed heavily. Fin needed protecting. He didn’t know it, but he always needed protecting. From the fierce Fëanorian cousins, and both of their overwhelming fathers, from Fin’s overprotective mother. But more, from Tirion. From the wagging tongues and prying eyes and vitriol that would follow the Princes of the Noldor, enjoying scandal and gossip and notoriety. Nelyo had enough for all of them. 

Findekáno. The Valiant. 

Nelyo smiled, his eyes full of love. Fin was indeed valiant. And brave, gallant, daring…and a complete innocent. And Nelyo was always there to protect him.

He turned over and pressed his face into the pillow where Fin’s head had rested. It smelled of him. He breathed in and let all of Fin’s scent fill him. He would always protect Fin, he swore. Even it meant he sacrificed himself to do so. Even if it meant his heart ached and was wrung with grief when Fin finally found his beloved, and wed her, beget children. Nelyo would be there. Protecting him. 

End

 

Oh. I say End… but we all know it isn’t.


	2. The Eagle

The Eagle

It was utterly silent but for the wind. It swept through the mountains, through the three great peaks and swirled around the hanging valleys and corries gouged out of the rock in long, long ages past. Here the mountain was smooth, a cliff of staggering height and no little trails or ledges but one, high high up where a cave opened in the cliff, like a mouth. Sometimes black smoke poured from the cave, thick and choking with a stench of death.

It was from this cave that the cacophony of noise came now. Shouting, jeering, harsh sounds like the Corvus. 

Gwahir watched as the Misbegotten poured from the cavern mouth and on to high ledge above the escarpment. Like black beetles they swarmed over the peak of the Mountain, Thangorodrim. Their thick voices were loud, desecrating. A heavy clank of metal came from amongst their jeering as they pulled, dragged something behind them, something that struggled and swore and shouted so that words echoed off the rock face, words that the Eagle had heard at times from the mouths of the Misbegotten. Gwahir did not know what they meant: there was no equivalent in The Tongue.

Some Misbegotten must have done something, Gwahir thought. This was a punishment, for the wriggling, struggling thing they dragged out. It was beaten down and kicked and bound. Gwahir preened his feathers, one golden eye on the Misbegotten. 

There was something strange about this one they punished. It was different. Its skin was pale and its head was copper-bronze like the eagle’s own feathers.

The punished Misbegotten suddenly surged to its feet and threw off its captors and Gwahir stared: this was an Earthborn, not Misbegotten! One of the silver-tongued, flame-eyes returners, a child of Fire. He cocked his head and turned so he could regard what happened. The Earthborn struggled briefly and then the Misbegotten hordes threw him down the mountain. Gwahir’s feathers ruffled and he half spread his wings in shock and thought he might swoop down but the Earthborn did not fall to the earth but stopped a little way down from the top. Gwahir blinked and cocked his head; a long chain had caught the Earthborn so he did not fall.

He was there for many hours and the Misbegotten did not leave but jeered and threw missiles at him. He swore and cursed up them in their own speech and they laughed and spat and jabbed down their long spears, gouging his flesh.

After days and nights, the Evil One himself came. He stood above the Earthborn and mocked him, then changed his own form into long dark shadows and twined itself, writhed and fingered at the child of Fire and he did not cry out but endured. Gwahir could see his teeth clenched and his silver-flame eyes tightly closed.

Gwahir returned to his King and dipped his beak respectfully. There is one of the Earthborn who hangs upon the cliff, one of the silver-tongued, sharp-eyed children of Fire. The Evil One torments him without mercy but he will not give in.

Thorondil went with Gwahir the next day and they circled high, high above, above the smoke and din of Angband, high upon Thangorodrim. Thorongil cocked his head and opened his beak to cry through the clear, clear air to the Earthborn below.

The Earthborn lifted his head defiantly, and when he looked up his eyes were full of light and fire, his head seemed wreathed in small flickering flames.

‘Tell Manwë then, you old vultures!’ His voice was hoarse like the crow. Not like the silver-tongue of the Earth-children after all, thought Gwahir, and he watched his King wheel sharply in rebuke. ‘Tell him how I have been maimed and tortured and let him laugh! But I will not yield!’

A breath of wind beneath the wing feathers, tipping him slightly, listing, ruffling the pinions...Gwahir let the air rush through his nostril, through his feathers, over his head...Is this Manwë, he asked his King and the nictitating membrane closed over his King’s eyes briefly in acquiescence.

Gwahir felt warmed by the Presence and then realised another stood behind him distantly yet, but there nevertheless,… the Allfather, the Great Eagle himself. Peace washed through Gwahir...

But the reedy cry of the Earthborn broke through the calm of the upper air. ‘Tell him I will be damned! I will not yield!’

Sacrilege, Thorongil said but he was not angry and he did not wheel again a rebuke, or dive against the Earthborn. Instead he looked at the stretched weak body...and Gwahir felt a twinge of compassion such as he did for a young eaglet that was weak and had to be pushed from the nest to be dashed upon the rocks.

Gwahir wanted to help the Earthborn but a stern voice forbid him. 

Watch, Thorongil told Gwahir and with a sweep of his mighty wings, the King raced away into the sun.

The eagle watched, as he was bid. But it was hard to see the child of Fire hanging from one pinion. It was harder still to see how the Evil One still slipped and writhed over his body in darkness and how the child endured, how he clenched his jaw and shut his silver-flame eyes.

The rain battered the thin body and Gwahir wondered how long he could last before he was carrion. Eagles prefer food still warm and this one surely could not last. How long had he hung there, railing in his own silver tongue against the Gods, calling upon his father, cursing both? Once or twice he called for his mother, and he did not curse her but wept. And at night, the Darkness covered him again, sliding over him, and he clenched his teeth and would not cry, would not yield.

During the day, the bright sun beat the child with fire, and the wind blasted him. Gwahir heard the voice of God in the wind. And still, the child of Fire would not yield.

Gwahir fell in love.

He no longer thought of the child of Fire as an Earthborn for it was too long since he had trod the earth. Gwahir swooped and flapped away the crows that would have gathered at the child’s poor feet for they were soft and had no scales to protect them or feathers to keep him warm. Gwahir gripped the peaked crag with his strong talons and wondered what would happen if he disobeyed his King and brought the child water, and food, and wrenched the child from the cliff. But Manwë was in his mind and he was sworn.

A long time it was that Gwahir maintained his watch. The Evil One no longer came and tormented the child and Manwë was no longer in Gwahir’s mind. But the child lived still and so it must be the Evil One made it so. Or perhaps it was because he was a child of Fire and they endured longer, for many an Earthborn would have died by now.

0o0o

From his crag, Gwahir looked out across the land. Much had happened and a great army of Earthborn had gathered on the shores of a far-off lake. His brothers told him of it. They were aflutter with excitement.

‘The First Earthborn have returned from Over the Sea. They will fight the Evil One and his Fire-Drakes. They will cast Him from our mountains and we can go home.’ 

Gwahir did not really know what they meant by Home. This was Home. But he was intrigued nonetheless and wished to go and see. His King allowed him to leave his guard because the child was weak now and had stopped shouting his defiance against Manwë. He had stopped speaking at all. He had almost stopped moving. 

Gwahir was permitted to fly in great, high circles above the camp. Tiny peaks of colour dotted the earth and streams of colour fluttered in the breeze from tall spires. Dots of fire showed where the Earthborn gathered in small groups. There were two camps, on either side of the lake and Gwahir was told by his brother that on one side were the Sons of Fire, and on the other were the Sons of Water for how else had they survived the Great Ice?

He did not know what else to ask. So he returned to his crag and his beloved child of Fire. 

It was not long after, that he spied a lone Earthborn in the valley below. It stumbled about, lost and in danger, thought Gwahir, for the Misbegotten would soon spy him. He thought about flying down and speaking to the Earthborn but Gwahir had not yet learned the Speech of the Earth-born like his King, and what would he say?

So he watched. And shook his feathers when the Earthborn’s reedy voice lifted on the air and drifted through the rocks and mountains, echoing off the cliffs. He cocked his head and blinked. The Earth-born must want the Misbegotten to find him, he thought. Perhaps he was a weak one sent out alone to find death.

But movement on the bare mountain cliffs caught his eye. His child had stirred. A strangled noise came from him and Gwahir cocked his head, watched with bright eyes for he did not want his child to die.

Now the Earthborn wanderer looked up and his gaze caught on the child hanging from one pinion. The Earthborn standing below stopped dead and stared, mouth open aghast. Then he began scrambling amongst the rocks, dangerously, Gwahir realised. Gwahir cried out before he could stop himself and the wanderer paused and looked up, saw Gwahir poised upon the high crags. He lifted his voice and the cries were strange to Gwahir, soft mewls like the young deer he caught.

There was a rasping croak, like the Corvus and at first he did not recognise the voice of his own dear child. So weak, so harsh.More like the Misbegotten themselves he was become so battered and stretched and thin he was.

Gwahir watched as the Earthborn below lifted something and held it up. The weak sunlight glittered on metal and he almost cried a warning for it was the long stemmed rod that sent death bolts into wing and breast! The Earthborn aimed it at the cliff face where his own beloved child was hung. Gwahir held his breath; the death bolt would pierce his child it was true but this was no life and he would have pushed an eaglet off the ledge long ago.

He whispered a prayer to the Great Eagle, Allfather, and felt the wind carry it away. He watched, his golden eye fixed upon the thin shape that was fixed by its pinion to the rock face. He prayed while its life was spent….

And nothing happened.

The Earthborn had dropped his death bolt and bowed his head. He made a strange sound, a keening and Gwahir realised that this one loved his own child of Fire as he did.

A whisper on the wind. He cocked his head to listen.

This one is dear to me. I am not yet done with him. Help them.

Ah! Such joy leapt in Gwahir’s breast and he opened his great wings and swooped down to the newly arrived Earthborn, who looked up with desperate fear and love as Gwahir beat the air with his wings and landed. He cocked his head and fixed the Earthborn with his golden eye and thought the Earthborn spoke and the words sounded lovely and fluid, Gwahir did not understand. He crouched slightly and jerked his head towards his lovely, battered, weak child and the Earthborn spoke more but this time he seemed to understood and seized upon Gwahir’s wing, pulled himself up onto his back as he would one of their horses that tasted so sweet. And Gwahir leapt into the air.

0o0o

 

Surely with the cunning and metal of the Earthborn, he could release the child of Fire and take him back to the glittering camps?

It seemed not.

It had been unbearably hard to hover endlessly at the cliff face whilst the Earthborn hacked and sawed at the child’s wrist. The screaming was raw and terrible, like a fox whose entrails he tore out. And then it stopped.

Gwahir wondered if his child had died and felt the loss, but he would have escaped a life of misery and weakness if he had.

He flew the Earthborn towards the glittering camp and when the Earthborn clambered down, he clutched the limp body of his child in his arms. 

Gwahir moved his head towards the limp body, tenderness in his heart like he felt for eggs and eaglets, the drive to protect.

The Earthborn whom he had helped raised his hand to Gwahir and his reedy voice spoke words that Gwahir did not understand but he knew the intention and dipped his head. A crowd of Earthborns were running towards them, their glittering metal sticks in their hands and Gwahir leapt into the air quickly before they aimed them at him. He hoped they would not hurt his child and he surged upwards, feeling the air under his wings, caught a thermal and swept upwards.

 

0o0o

 

He saw his child once more, long years after. The wreath of flames around his head were feathers of course and had grown back, long and fluttering. He rode with the other Earthborn, whom he watched adoring. It was enough.

 

The End


End file.
